A Rat By Any Other Name
by Keiggy
Summary: The man could not remember anything about who he used to be. Whoever that person was, he was long gone, and there was no point in dwelling on that mystery. Still...


**AN:**

Keiggy tries her hand at Fanfiction for the first time in six years! Lmao. I haven't written in a looooooooong time, and I don't really feel comfortable using pre-existing characters, so I hope this isn't too OOC!

For reference, this takes place during a time with a younger Junkrat—15 years old at least.

Enjoy!

* * *

It was that time of the day where the sun glared down with unholy heat at the bright dust of what once was the Australian Outback. Civilization still existed, true, but not for hundreds of miles. Junkrat could barely walk under the heat. His legs ached and as did his shoulders and neck. He was still young, and somewhat unexperienced, but he knew what needed to be done to survive in this wasteland he called home. He carried a dusty old backpack full of necessary supplies, such as food and water. Stale food. Dirty water. There was no point in complaining, though, considering some days were spent without either. Perhaps his struggle would've been eased if he had prepared himself with something to shield his skin from the sun. He knew how disgustingly hot it got, and yet he refused to stuff his bag with "unnecessary" weight (Necessary: explosives). _Ya dipshit,_ he thought, _Couldn't get yourself the blanket, could ya?_

After what felt like an eternity, Junkrat found himself close to what looked like civilization. As soon as he realized, his eyes lit up and he ran as fast as he could towards the skeletal buildings in the distance. It didn't look inhabited. That was fine. As long as he could lay down and rest, he didn't care. All he wanted was some shade to cool off, and maybe a place to tinker with some scrap he'd picked up along the way. A few meters in and he got tired of running, so he returned to his slower pace. He began to get a clearer view of the small gathering of buildings—to his surprise, they were in good condition (As good as buildings destroyed in a nuclear fallout could look, at least).

"S'n old town, huh," he murmured to himself. The buildings were destroyed, but not empty, which meant it hadn't been scavenged by anyone just yet, and that made this place somewhat like a historic monument: a relic of a time before the place turned to shit. Judging by his age, Junkrat had always known he was alive before the destruction of the Omnium, yet he couldn't remember a thing. He tried not to think about it much—it wasn't worth thinking about it; but he did always wonder who he used to be. His entire life had been Junkertown, as far as _Junkrat_ was concerned. He shook his head as if it would shoo away his thoughts, and kept walking. He found a near-roofless convenience store: it had hints of blue, but the exterior was mostly burnt and faded. He happily walked in, finally being able to shield himself from the sun.

"Oi!" he called out, to no answer. He looked around the place, careful not to touch any suspicious looking areas in case they were boobytrapped. He'd seen a man lose an arm to a steel-trap once—not a pretty sight. He liked having his limbs intact, thank you very much.

Once he made sure he'd found a safe spot, he sat down. He crossed his arms behind his head and lay agains his backpack. He looked up at what was left of the roof and kept staring. His mind wandered off as his eyes traced the cracks and beams and pipes over his head.

His name was Junkrat. Someone had shoved him off and called him a rat, and for a while he took that as his name. He didn't remember where he got the 'Junk' from, but it had stuck. He didn't remember much of anything. In a way, it frightened him. His mind was messy—that much he knew—but every now and then he'd just forget things. He was fine, though, remembering wasn't a necessity. Yet, sometimes he wished he hadn't forgotten life before Junkertown. Sometimes fellow, much older Junkers gathered in ramshackle taverns and told stories of _Before._ Clear skies, they mentioned, a hot sun that kissed your skin rather than bite through it. Rain that felt like petals rather than needles. Streets that looked nice, houses, full families. No children off on their own asking for food, there were schools... What killed him was knowing this all still existed. But not here, not in Junkertown. No, he had to work for every meal, suffer every punch, wonder if someday he'd wake up at all, puke his insides out, sleep out in the open—cold and alone. And yet the entire world could afford the luxury of having even a name. It wasn't fair. It just wasn't. An entire world of people with zero struggles. One day, he'd show 'em. Yeah. He'd give 'em a taste of what it meant to be a Junker. Everyone would run and scream and witness his glorious explosions all around the world, or his name isn't...!

...Junkrat?

Anyway... about those scraps he had in his bag. He sat up and looked through his belongings, pulling out bits and pieces he could put together or trade for a meal. He toyed with it all for some time, and ended up with a little contraption he found no use for, but someone else would. Nice. Maybe he could afford a meal and a blanket. That would be perfect. It was better to trade in something you worked on rather than just a pile of scraps. If there was one thing Junkers respected, it was effort.

 _Jamie, I'm not buying you any candy. Let's go._

He felt something—no, _heard_ something. It was vivid, it was real, he swore... Was he hallucinating? It might've been a hallucination. It happens when you don't rest. Jamie? Who? _Candy?_ The fuck in God's holy name was candy? As soon as he heard the voice, that woman's voice, he jolted up. It might not have been real but he heard it so clearly. He looked around, but nothing. "S... S'anybody out there?"

Again, nothing.

He quickly put everything back in his bag and walked around the remnants of the store. How strange. A woman, here? Most women in the Outback sounded nothing like this! They were loud and gruff, not gentle and... Motherly?

He approached a counter that might've once been where one paid for their groceries. There were little baskets with the melted remains of magazines, batteries, and the like. He looked through them, but couldn't find anything of importance. One particular basket held little, faded blue packets. Curious, Junkrat took one and inspected the squishy little thing. It had a cute caricature of a frog with a yellow shirt. Now, he wasn't the best at reading (or writing for that matter), but the frog's shirt for sure had the word ' _Freddo_ ' written across it. Whoever this _Freddo_ bloke was, he managed to make an impact on Junkrat. He felt... He felt a spark in his chest, a warm feeling that didn't last. He shook his head and let out a small giggle. He opened the packet. ' _Milk Chocolate_ ', it said. Yeah, he'd heard of chocolate before. Some delicious, creamy snack, it was. Maybe he could have a little taste! What's a five year-old, ten year-old treat gonna do to him that the radiation hadn't done already? The contents were very melted, and his fingers got dirty with the mud-like substance. He took his index finger and scooped some of that brown cream and shoved it in his mouth.

Nope. Nope, nope, nope, _NOPE_.

Looked like shit AND tasted like shit too! What a marvel. Needless to say, he spit it out fairly quickly. "Bah! Remind me never t'do that again!" He wiped the spit off his chin and resumed his trek around the ghost town. He glanced at the old buildings and, for the first time, he was interested. He'd never seen a town from _Before_ so untouched. He felt as though he was living there, walking down from the grocery store back to his house, as if he belonged in the _Before_ time. He leaned against the remnants of a mailbox, one hand firm on his hip and the other on the mailbox, forming a hand puppet facing himself.

"G'day, mate," he shouted, "Lovely day, innit?"

"Oi, g'day, sir," his little hand puppet answered, "Lovely day indeed! You look tired, won't ya come inside for a cuppa'?"

"Ah, you're too kind, mate, but m'afraid I gotta get goin'"

"Awh, but Jamie, yer so handsome and smart!"

"Ah, haha, oh, now you're makin' me b—whoa, wait a tic, wot'd you just call me?"

His hand didn't respond. He glared at it, and pouted. After a good 10 seconds, he _tsk_ -ed at it. "Foine! Don't tell me, y'piece of..." and just like that, he'd forgotten half the conversation. Something had caught his attention—a rattle. So he wasn't alone after all? He tried to find the source, to no avail. He grumbled and asked aloud for whoever was there to come out. No one answered. Maybe he imagined it? He'd been hearing voices earlier, wasn't he? Might not have been real. Or maybe it was an animal. Who knows! Doesn't matter anymore. He kept walking down the town's cracked sidewalk, looking around his environment.

The buildings grew farther and farther apart from one another the further he went. He wondered how far he'd gone, seeing as the Omnium was no where in sight. Sometimes, he'd think about how far the Outback stretched. He knew the "good", " _civilized_ " Australia still existed, somewhere far beyond Junkertown. He'd once asked why they couldn't just move back there—their hard irradiated life didn't _have_ to exist if they'd just joined the rest of the world. The way the men looked at him told him that, had he not been a child at the time, they would've smacked his teeth out. Instead, they grumbled. "They don't want us. They looked at us, and they saw nuthin' worth savin'. Them _suits_ , they don't care about _people_. They care about fillin' their pockets and kissin' Omnic ass."

And seemingly out of no where, he found himself standing in front of a door. He stared at it, then looked around. Hardly any other houses around him, yet he almost bumped his head straight against this one. A ratty little thing, it was. Not much time passed before he decided to open the door (Or what was left of it, anyway). He didn't ask himself why, he didn't think there'd be anything of value inside; but he had this... _impulse_. He took a look around the house and suddenly, everything felt _wrong_ —or did it feel right? He couldn't tell; he just knew that, the moment he walked in, his heart sank to his stomach. Junkrat placed a shaking hand over his chest, and furrowed his eyebrows. _Where the hell am I?_

Deep down, he knew. He felt so many things at once—things he could barely comprehend—that he just _knew_. It didn't make any sense, and yet...

He became frantic. He laughed nervously as he suddenly felt the need to scavenge through the wreckage of what he felt could only have been his home. What could he hope to find in this dump? There was hardly ever anything of value for a Junker in a house, but... This place. God damn it to _hell_. He couldn't understand why everything hurt so much, why he was so angry. He didn't remember this house at all, yet it felt so familiar. How old was he by the time the Omnium exploded? Four? Six? Who was he? He lived here? But then, who were his parents? So many questions crossed the back of his mind, but none had answers. All he knew was that he felt such terrible heartache. _God, make it stop!_

Junkrat was looking for something, all the while savagely tearing through furniture, breaking most things in front of him. He hated it. He hated Junkertown, he hated the fallout, he hated every single person he knew; but above all, he hated seeing something that was his' _destroyed_. For once in his life, he truly regretted the life he was forced to live. For once, he felt the warmth of a home—if only for a second—and it was immediately taken away. The rage that had consumed him lasted for some time before he began to calm down. His heavy breathing, his knotted throat and the weight of his heart had him wobbling against the corridor walls until he came across a door frame with no door. He looked at the room with misty eyes, and saw the remnants of a child's room. Withered toys and a broken bed. He took a deep breath and walked in.

He'd never felt so weak. He'd never felt so out of touch with himself. Everything he'd known crumbled down and he didn't even know who he was. He couldn't just be another worthless rat in the wasteland—this was proof! He was a person before all this, and he couldn't even savor the memory of it. The world would pay. The Omnics would pay, the suits would pay— _EVERYONE_ would pay! As his thoughts lazily gathered, he sat on the rotting mattress and clawed at his head, clutching blond clumps of hair. His eyes moved quickly as they inspected the floor. Toy tools, toy robots... A notebook... A notebook?

Quick as a curious mouse, he scurried over to it and inspected it. His chest hurt _so much_. He felt suffocation coming and going and his fingers went cold. He knew this notebook, but he didn't remember it. There was no real proof that this was his', but if the rush of heat going through his body was an indication of anything, then it could only mean that it was. So he opened it. And Junkrat was gone. His dirty fingers traced the letters on the first page. In the crude handwriting of a child, the words ' _Property of Jamison Fawkes!_ ' were written, faded stickers and unintelligible scribbles all over.

He flipped through the pages, and with each one, he felt closer and closer to a person he thought was long gone.

So he wept.

And for a moment, he allowed himself to be Jamison Fawkes.


End file.
